To Write Love on His Arms
by Holly Maura
Summary: Love last forever, but lust lasts one night.


**A/N:** Here's a shoddy one-shot I'm writing to burn off all the stored up creativity that I have from two weeks of fanfic withdrawals. Suspension of disbelief is required. And since Caspian married, "Ramandu's daughter" instead of someone with an actual NAME (that is _definitely_ much more sexist than Susan getting on with her life, in my opinion) I named her Della.

And to even out my karmic balance, I'm using this sacrilegiously slashy story to promote To Write Love on Her Arms, a charity dedicated to helping prevent/stop depression. Go visit them at twloha(dot)com

**This story is dedicated to Rory J. Evans, for being a constant inspiration for me to write slash, for being patient with my fickle emotional disappearances, and her overall awesomeness.**

**To Write Love on His Arms **

"_Though your sins are like scarlet,_

_They shall be as white as snow;_

_Though they are as red as crimson,_

_They shall be like wool."_

_- Isaiah 1:18_

Being in the cathedral made Caspian anxious like no other - but Della liked it and that was what counted. Maybe he wasn't all there, but he tried to make it up where he could. And if dragging him self out of bed every Sunday morning to attend mass made him a better person – a better _husband ­_­­– then he would. He needed all the help he could get.

Thinking on it, maybe there were too many white lines. There were these things they didn't talk about that they just didn't feel comfortable with. Caspian did not ask about why she cried in the bathroom, and spent so much money on dresses he never saw her in. Nor did he ask about the supposed affair she was having with the Calormene manservant, - a tidbit of gossip that the maids always tittered about especially loud whenever he walked past, as if trying_ desperately_ to get him to lose his temper. In exchange for his indifference, she didn't ask about politics, sex, or more importantly the _past_. Their conversations were generally quite short.

Caspian always said he'd try harder. Especially on beautiful Sunday mornings like this, when the choirs were singing the hymns he liked, and the priest gave a particularly cathartic homily. Then he promised he'd forget about Peter and accept Della as his wife. But it didn't take long for the magical fairy dust of the cathedral to wear off – and before the Host left his body, he would find himself slowly slipping into negligence. He was stuck in a spin cycle of constant denial.

Every Sunday, Della would slip her slight, delicate hands into his, and together they'd chant along with the rest of the church, "I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God."

Caspian would close his eyes and bite his lip, trying to hold back all the memories, like it was possible for him to ignore that part of his brain. Della would smile and stroke his hand, thinking he was being passionate about confession, not holding onto the memories of his former lover, in the only place where they would show up as bright as the three crescent-shaped scars on his left wrist; remaining from the last time Peter had pulled him into an alcove to steal a kiss - because for some reason, they were always sweeter in the day time, when they could pretend that it was okay, and that they didn't have to hide.

So there was proof, charted out on his arms, marking him as taken. The white lines - the places no one could go. He scorned Peter for leaving evidence, reminders; a hindrance in his attempt to move on. Though it was nice to have a confirmation that he wasn't insane, - and at some point it had all been **real**, - it wasn't fair that he was shackled to someone who had long since let go.

"May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life. Amen."

After leaving Narnia, Peter had to improvise, finding his own secret world. He found out it wasn't so difficult. You just had to look hard enough. There were portals and passwords, and pretty boys, in the least expected places here on earth. With no wars attached. No broken hearts. A great improvement in his opinion.

If only Caspian didn't blow all of those variables out of the water.

Peter would sneak out of the house late at night, a portrait of a crucifix staring at him sorrowfully from over his bed. He would cover it in a few weeks time. The dark haired prophet reminded him too much of Caspian.

Every night it was someone different. Always brunettes. Always boys. Anywhere from cars, to dark alleys, to broken down flats with dirty sheets. It was the way his nerves screamed, blocking out his thoughts. White hot hips, like pretty car-crashes. Just the reassurance of having another human being with him, feeling their pulse throb under flushed skin. It was his vice.

He hoped that one day he'd wake up to Caspian's face looming above him, dark and tan, hair in a sweaty tangled mess - but smirking iridescently, as usual - and glowing, like he'd found a piece of happy on the bedside table, and consumed it all before Peter had the chance. He was always disappointed. Caspian was never there, nor could he find a piece of happy on the bedside table waiting for him. Just a slutty stranger, a reflection he could never face and a room that had looked so much better in the dark. The head pressure helped him deal, giving him a physical pain, not nearly as painful as the one in his heart, but definitely much more pretentious and demanding.

But deep down Peter knew that he wouldn't find him again. He wasn't going back to Narnia. And even if he did, Caspian may already be long gone by then.

So this helped ease the pain. So did the drinks, the drugs, the cuts. And he knew better. Peter was just throwing a tantrum, hoping God would notice and finally give him what he wanted. And in a way He did, if for a few hours, Peter could get so deeply intoxicated that he couldn't feel a thing, nor realize that it wasn't Caspian he was fucking.

And so it went. All Peter had to hold on to were the memories, and Caspian's voice constantly ringing in his ears hauntingly. "Love lasts forever, Peter."

And Peter was only too aware of how true that was. Though, now, he was starting to realize that lust could only last one night.


End file.
